A Bird in the Paw
by Miacis
Summary: Basil and Dawson are called to investigate the theft of a rare bird's egg, but the seemingly innocuous case quickly spirals into a world of murderous weasels, hungry owls, and stakes that run higher than either of them could have imagined...
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: The Great Mouse Detective is copyright Disney._

In all his years with Basil of Baker Street, Dr. David Q. Dawson had found that their association had taken him to several very dangerous places. A visit to the Natural History Museum seemed like a welcome change of pace.

He glanced over at his companion as they entered the small, hidden side door that would take them below the human museum to the mouse one beneath it. A scientist at the museum had sent them an urgent but vague message that morning about a rather curious problem- something about a bird's egg missing from the museum. "I can't promise anything exciting out of this one," Basil had said, "but it's just odd enough that it could be interesting." That thought had the greatest detective in good spirits; business had been slow recently, which always left the greatest detective in all Mousedom disconsolate. Dawson was secretly relieved at the prospect of a quiet reprieve from the usual adventure.

"Are you Mr. Basil?" a young mouse- the same one who had delivered the message to Mrs. Judson that morning- asked as they entered the museum. It was really an unnecessary question; there were few others among mice or men who wore deerstalker caps in the middle of London. "Dr. Chipman wanted to meet you in the aviary. This way, please." The young mouse proceeded to guide them toward the back of the museum. Basil said nothing, taking in every detail of the museum as they passed, but Dawson didn't need his friend's amazing investigative skill to see immediately see what was wrong- the museum had been open to the public all morning, and the heavy traffic throughout the halls would have obscured a lot of potential clues.

Dawson decided to also have a look around, but where Basil was looking for details, the doctor was content to gaze at the museum's displays as they passed them. They had entered a hall of fossilized lifeforms, and great skeletons of long dead creatures were mounted there- Dawson paused to stare in awe as the toothy visage of one giant monster stared back down at him, its empty sockets seemingly trying to decide whether or not it was hungry for mouse. The name beneath the skeleton read "_Compsognathus_". Overhead, an equally huge creature soared on skeletal wings, mounted from the ceiling- it had a beak full of sharp, snaggled teeth. The name plate that went with it said, "_Rhamphorynchus_". Even knowing that the owners of the bones were long dead, Dawson shuddered and hurried to stick close to Basil.

"They are rather fearsome looking, aren't they?" a new voice asked with a chuckle, and Dawson looked up to see an older mouse approaching them. Bespectacled and dignified, his smile couldn't quite hide the worry etched in his face as he crossed the hall to shake hands with both Basil and Dawson. "Dr. Chipman," he introduced himself, "and I'm so glad you could come at such short notice. We have a real problem on our hands, and an odd one at that."

Basil smiled reassuringly. "I think you'll find, my good doctor, that these 'odd' problems are often the easier to solve. 'Singularity is almost invariably a clue', as they say. However, the note that your assistant delivered to us was rather vague- could you start by giving us a fuller account of the situation?"

"My apologies, Mr. Basil- I wasn't in the best frame of mind when I wrote to you after the discovery. Come, I'll take you to the scene, and explain things along the way." He proceeded to lead them out of the dinosaur hall, still deeper into the museum, his assistant falling into step behind. "How much do you know of my work?"

"Not much, I'm afraid. You used to do a good deal of field work in New Zealand, I see."

Chipman raised an eyebrow at that. "Oh?"

"Your gait and manner of movement suggests a certain ranginess of muscle used to long years spent traversing inhospitable terrain. That old powder burn scar on your hand is from the rifle you used to collect specimens. Judging by the curl of your right hand, however, you were forced to retire from it due to the arthritis which afflicted your trigger finger. I deduce New Zealand based on your unusual cufflinks- they are made from Kauri wood, if I'm not mistaken, which is native to there. Am I right?"

Chipman broke into a genuine smile, and for a moment his anxiety seemed to vanish. "I knew I'd picked the right mouse for the job! But that's only half the story. I think some background on our project is necessary."

Having exited the public halls, they'd arrived at the very back of the museum, to a large room bisected by wiring that seemed to have been installed relatively recently. The barred off portion appeared to connect to the outside somehow- a breeze greeted the mice as they entered. The fresh air was pleasant, but the entire room smelled strongly of wild animal.

"As you've also probably surmised, my specialty is birds," Dr. Chipman said. "New Zealand was full of them when I was there. It still is, I suppose, although it may not be for much longer."

"Whatever do you mean?" asked Dawson.

"Species which develop in an isolated region, such as New Zealand, are very susceptible to change, Dr. Dawson, and Imperial presence there has brought nothing but that. With the forests being cleared and European rats and weasels poaching the nests for eggs, a good many bird species are in danger of being lost forever- such as this one." He pointed to a corner of the enclosure, where two brownish balls of fluff were huddled. They appeared to be songbirds, their eyes closed in sleep. One of them, a small feather sticking out of place on its head, draped its wing gently over the other. "These are called piopio birds, the New Zealand thrush, of the North Island variety," Chipman explained, undoing the lock to the enclosure's door and opening it. Instantly both birds were roused, bright black eyes on him as he held the door open for Basil and Dawson. "Do please come in," he said. "They won't hurt you." Detective and doctor both stepped carefully inside to join him.

"Pio?" the bird with the ruffled feather chirped questioningly. Chipman smiled and beckoned it to come closer. "Pio!" it exclaimed, hopping excitedly across the cage to meet him; the other bird followed, though with considerably more self-restraint.

Chipman laughed as the first bird thrust its beak under his hand so that the naturalist could stroke the upturned feather. "This one is the male- his name is Peter," he explained. "The female is Petra. They are, as far as anyone can tell, the last of their kind in all the world."

"You don't say?" said Dawson, regarding Peter curiously, as the bird stared back at him in similar fashion. Chipman nodded as the doctor hesitantly extended his hand for Peter to inspect it.

"When a species declines so drastically," Chipman continued, "the general consensus is that its demise is inevitable, and the only interest it generates is a desire to collect specimens before it becomes extinct. I used to feel much as my colleagues did, until I came into possession of a chick, just hatched, taken from the last piopio nest found in the wild. I nurtured the little bird, who grew into adulthood- that would be Peter, here." He stared fondly at the bird, who was nibbling experimentally at Dawson's coat. "However, an idea also grew within me- what if extinction in the wild was _not _the end? What if we could preserve, and even replenish, a species by breeding it in captivity? No one's tried it before, but after raising Peter I felt that the species deserved any chance I could offer it. So I used my influence at the museum to acquire Petra and the space to give it a try."

"Yes, yes, very interesting," Basil said disinterestedly. He stared at the mess of twigs and feathers spread out at their feet. "Is this how you found the enclosure?"

"No, I'm afraid the birds became frantic when they found the egg missing, and scattered the nesting material everywhere," Chipman said apologetically. "Can you still find anything out from it?"

"It _does_ make things more difficult," Basil muttered, taking out his magnifying glass. "But not impossible." He began to walk carefully around the enclosure, examining the debris strewn across the floor. Knowing better than to get in his way while he worked, Dawson stood back with Chipman. Peter, however, seemed to find Basil fascinating, particularly his tail, which was carried high and swayed slightly as he walked. The other two mice watched with amusement as Peter followed him around the cage; Petra shifted nervously at the intrusion of her nest site.

"I think he's taken a liking to Mr. Basil," Chipman commented. "He's very acclimated to mice, having been raised entirely by myself since before his eyes were open, although as a result he's never fully learned proper avian behaviors, including flight." Chipman paused reflectively before he spoke again. "It's true that in my younger years I approached natural science the way the others do- with a rifle. It's currently the only way to positively identify a species. Even if it weren't for my arthritis, though, I don't think I could ever raise a gun to a living creature again, especially when that species is in danger of being lost forever. It's my hope that someday we naturalists go armed with cameras, instead, and that photographic proof will suffice in place of a skin. Careful, Dr. Dawson- Petra's not as tame as Peter, and doesn't like to be touched."

"I understand now the importance of this egg," Dawson said, quickly withdrawing his hand from the female bird as her beak opened in warning, "but will it still be viable this long out of the nest?"

"Petra hadn't started to incubate it, yet- the egg won't actually start to develop until then, so there's a chance of saving it if we find it soon." Before he could say anything more, Basil cried out in excitement; all eyes turned to him as he stooped to pick something up from the floor.

"What is it?" asked Chipman.

"Tell me, Dr. Chipman, does the museum employ any weasels?" Basil asked, examining whatever was in his hand more closely with his magnifying glass.

"Weasels?" asked Dawson, suppressing a shudder. While some weasels lived among Mousedom, others chose to live as predators; in any case, they were quite rare in London.

"I don't believe so," Chipman answered. "Why do you ask?"

Basil held up his prize for the others to see- a single, course brown hair. "Fur of this type could only come from a weasel, of the northern variety judging by its thickness." He paused in thought, looking to the far wall where a small hatch had been installed into the wall; it was the source of the room's draft. "How many ways are there into this cage?"

"Only through the main door. The enclosure connects to a small pen outside, but the wiring is too fine for even a weasel to squeeze through. Yet the guards recall nothing out of the ordinary last night."

"I see," said Basil, opening the hatch and sticking his head through to look; it was just as the naturalist had said. He continued to think. "I have a theory of what's happened, but I need more information before I'll be confident in voicing it. In the meanti-" Basil's face suddenly contorted into an pained expression- Peter had caught his tail in his beak. The detective snatched it away from him, glaring at the bird. "In the meantime," he continued, "please let me know if anything new develops."

"Most certainly, Mr. Basil," Chipman affirmed, escorting them out. The strangers gone, Petra approached her ruined nest and trilled sorrowfully; the mice watched as Peter hopped to her side and snuggled against her reassuringly.

"Don't worry, Dr. Chipman," Dawson said confidently. "Basil will get to the bottom of this matter." They bid farewell to the old scientist and started for the public halls.

"Mr. Basil?" someone said behind them after they'd left the bird room. It was Chipman's assistant, who had waited quietly outside of the cage.

"Yes?" asked Basil.

"I heard what you said about a weasel, and it got me to thinking. There's a Mr. Mousescott who donates specimens to the museum from time to time- when he has extras from his own collection, which is quite large. He offered to buy the piopios from Dr. Chipman for a very generous price, though of course he was refused. Anyway, Mousescott himself is a mouse, but he has a weasel bodyguard." The assistant made a sour face. "Dr. Chipman might not think so, but if anyone would do it, I'd bet it'd be Mousescott. What an awful fellow."

"I'll look into it," Basil promised. They continued to walk.

"What do you make of all this?" Dawson asked in a low tone.

"Nothing good," Basil replied. "Though as I said, I need to gather more information before I give my thoughts on the matter. I will say, though, that we're unlikely to ever recover the egg." Seeing Dawson's downcast expression, he added, "But let's look into this Mr. Mousescott and see where it leads us, shall we?"


	2. Chapter 2

Mousescott must have had friends in the museum to tell him of Basil's involvement in the case, for a message inviting them to his home was waiting for them when they returned to Baker Street. Curious as to why their best lead would save them a trouble of requesting a meeting themselves, Basil and Dawson soon found themselves outside the gate to the Mousescott estate. They were met there by a large weasel (presumably the one Chipman's assistant had referred to) and were wordlessly escorted into the house where Mousescott awaited them.

Mousescott was small, well mannered and well dressed, making him an amusing contrast with his tall mustelid servant, who stood silently behind the guests. "No doubt you've heard," the little mouse said, after introductions had been made, "of my prior offer upon Dr. Chipman's birds. When I heard of the theft, and that you had been hired, Mr. Basil, I thought it prudent that I speak to you myself, lest my previous actions cast suspicion upon me."

"We're eager to hear your side of the matter," Basil said evenly.

"Actually, I'd like to show you something instead, This way, please," Mousescott said, opening a door that lead farther into the house. Basil and Dawson exchanged a look, but followed their host into the next room.

The new room was huge, more like a museum hall, really, especially given its decor- mounts and skins and other specimens were everywhere, all carefully arranged and displayed. Most of the mounts were of insects, though there were still a great many birds and other small animals from around the world- parrots and seabirds and ever more exotic forms. Dawson only recognized a few. The most elaborate display was of a small adult bird standing eternal vigil over several fuzzy black chicks, arranged as though they were in a nest. Mousescott took them past this, though, to a collection toward the back; here, next to a pair of stubby winged, wren-like birds, were two stuffed piopios.

"As you can see," Mousescott said with evident pride, "I already have two fine specimens of this species. That wasn't what motivated my offer to buy the birds."

Dawson examined the stuffed birds more closely. Like the nesting family, they had been well mounted into simulated life; one of them draped its wing endearingly over the other, just as Peter had to Petra. Unlike the live birds, however, these two had glass eyes, and their dead stares seemed almost sad. Suddenly Dawson felt like all of the stuffed animals in the room were watching him with those same eyes; at that moment he would have given anything to have been under the empty gaze of the _Compsognathus _once more instead.

Mousescott apparently took his interest for admiration. "They are lovely specimens, aren't they, Doctor Dawson? Unfortunately, they had already been posed like that when I acquired them- it's quite a shame, really, as it makes it hard to see the second bird clearly. Still, I find them a fine addition to my collection.

"And if you need further proof of my innocence," he continued, oblivious to Dawson's look of flustered indignation, "I direct your attention over to here." He indicated a display cabinet along the wall. It contained several preserved eggs; scanning the labels identified one splotchy white and brown egg as "_Turnagra hectori_- North Island Piopio".

"I already have an egg from the species, and the records to prove it is mine," Mousescott said.

"Why did you offer to buy Dr. Chipman's birds, then?" asked Basil, partly because Dawson looked like he was about to say something regrettable.

"To protect my own interests," Mousescott said simply. "Most of the species represented in this room are very rare- some of them are even extinct. This makes them very valuable. While I feel Dr. Chipman's dream of reviving this species is little more than a foolish waste of time, I nonetheless decided to take steps to protect my investment. If nothing else, I'd spare Dr. Chipman some disappointment and wasted effort. But he refused, and I pursued the matter no further."

"We're very grateful for your time," Basil said quickly; Dawson looked ready to explode now, and the detective decided it was time to go. "You've certainly helped to clarify a few things. I'll let you know if we need to speak with you again. Come along, Dawson."

"I'm sure you'll catch the _real _culprit, Mr. Basil," Mousescott said. "And I hope this convinces Dr. Chipman to give up on this silly experiment. Now, if you'll excuse me, my porter will see you out."

The weasel, silent as ever, escorted them to the door and stood aside to hold it open. "Keep up the good work, old chap," Basil said as he passed, patting the larger animal on the back; the weasel actually growled at him, and Dawson momentarily forgot his anger as he thought for a terrified moment that the mustelid might take a bite out of his friend. Basil just continued to smile pleasantly as they exited the house and walked to the gate, the weasel glaring at them from the door until they had completely left the premises.

"What a horrible, horrible person!" Dawson fumed as soon as they'd cleared the gate. "'Protect his investment', indeed! We'll see what Scotland Yard thinks of this!"

"Being a horrible person is hardly a crime in and of itself, Dawson," Basil said mildly. "In any case, he had no motive to steal the egg."

"No motive? But he said-"

"I heard what he said, Dawson, and that's precisely why it makes no sense for him to have taken the egg. If he wanted his specimens to retain their value by keeping the species rare, then merely stealing an egg wouldn't accomplish that- an egg can be easily replaced. The only way to ensure that doesn't occur would be to steal or kill one of the parents. In any case," he continued, examining something in his palm, "Mousescott's weasel is not the one we're searching for. Look here, at this strand of loose hair I obtained from our taciturn friend back there."

"When you patted him on the back," Dawson said in realization.

"Yes, yes. Do you see how thin and fine it is? He's from more southerly stock. Compare it to this," and he pulled from his pocket the strand from the crime scene, "and you'll notice immediately the differences in thickness, texture and color. These are clearly from two different weasels."

"So what does that leave our investigation?" Dawson asked.

"Not much, I'm afraid. I can run some chemical tests on this strand of hair at Baker Street to see if it can yield any more clues, but the egg is almost certainly lost by now."

"You keep saying that- are you going to tell me why or aren't you?" Dawson was still angry from the conversation with Mousescott, which made Basil's evasiveness all the more exasperating.

"Calm down, Dawson. It's a well known fact that eggs, especially exotic ones, are something of a delicacy among rats and mustelids. Even Dr. Chipman alluded to it, when he said that poaching of the nests had contributed to the birds' decline. There are those who would pay dearly for what may be the last chance to dine on an egg of this sort, and if a weasel took it, that is most probably its fate."

"Oh. What an awful thing that would be, if you're right," Dawson said, but he knew that Basil was usually right. They continued back to Baker Street in a glum silence.

"No no, it's no good at all," Basil said, looking down at his chemistry lab in disgust. "I simply can't glean anything more from it." He sighed and turned away from the table, then walked across the room to stand in front of the fireplace.

Dawson looked up from his chair, where he'd been reading; Basil had spent the entire rest of the day experimenting on that single strand of fur, and though the doctor had no idea what exactly had been done, the entire room now smelled distinctly of chemicals and burnt hair. Brilliant though Basil was, he couldn't find something that genuinely wasn't there, and it was obvious that the hair of that northern weasel had told them all it was going to.

"What do we do now?" the doctor asked.

"I'll send the Irregulars out tomorrow," Basil said resignedly. "I don't want them going anywhere too dangerous, given the nature of our culprit, but they may be able to provide us with new leads." He continued to stare into the fire, lost in thought.

Dawson, too, was pensive, but for an entirely different reason. "The whole business really is a shame," he said at last.

"Yes," Basil agreed absently. "Dr. Chipman certainly is a nice fellow. It's unfortunate to see him so victimized."

"Well, that, too, but that's not what I meant. I meant about the birds."

"The birds?" Basil turned slightly to look at him.

"That they're almost extinct."

"Things go extinct, Dawson. Just like those fossils in the museum." Basil turned back to look at the fire once more.

"But not like this, I should think. I think Dr. Chipman's idea is wonderful, should he succeed. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Truthfully," said Basil, still facing away from him, "I am with Mr. Mousescott on this: I think it's a waste of time."

Dawson couldn't quite believe his ears. "But- But Basil!"

"Think about it, Dawson," Basil said calmly. "Suppose that Dr. Chipman succeeds and produces an entire flock of birds. Where will they go? They are in this situation precisely because there isn't a place left for them in the world anymore."

"Well, perhaps if-"

"Perhaps what? Do you think that the colonists will stop everything for the sake of a single songbird?" He paused for a moment, before he said, more quietly, "I don't mean to sound cruel, Dawson, but I'm only stating the way of the world. Nothing will stand in the way of progress, and if something can't adapt, well, maybe it's better if it disappears."

Dawson said nothing, hurt and saddened by his friend's callousness. Yet he knew that it was part of Basil's nature; like his human counterpart, the mouse detective was wholly obsessed with solving crimes and any knowledge that would help him to do so. Almost everything outside of that was irrelevant to him. Sure, he might feel bad about the fate of the birds, but only in a distant, detached sort of way- it had no real bearing upon his life.

Yet that same single-mindedness, Dawson reminded himself, was precisely what made Basil such a good detective. He may not personally care about the piopios, but he would stop at nothing to find the thief who had stolen their egg. Whatever his faults may be, Basil would put things to right, or at least as right as they could be put again. Dawson tried to cheer himself up with that thought, but he still felt sad, for Basil now as much as the birds.

Basil, to his credit, could see that he'd upset his friend, though he wasn't entirely sure why- he'd only stated the facts of the matter, after all. "It's been a long day," he said gently. "Let's turn in for now. We'll see what we find tomorrow." And with that, both mice left the sitting room and settled in for a good night's sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

The sun had yet to rise when Dawson was awakened by an urgent knocking on his door.

"There's a messenger here," Mrs. Judson said from the other side. "It's something about that museum business- he says it's an emergency!"

Basil was already dressed and waiting at the front door by the time Dawson had hurriedly thrown on his clothes and grabbed his medical bag. In the interest of expediency, the messenger- identifying himself as having been sent by Inspector Moustrade- had enlisted the aid of a dog, who would also ferry them back to the museum.

"What's this all about?" Dawson asked, as they were ushered onto their canine transport, who broke into a brisk trot.

"There's been a break-in at the museum, sir," the messenger said. "The office of a Dr. Chipman. I didn't see the scene myself, but from the sound of it, it's bad. Inspector Moustrade's there right now, and as soon as he found out Mr. Basil was involved with an earlier incident, he sent me to fetch you." Try as they might, the messenger had no more information to give, and there was nothing to do but continue the trip in silent trepidation of what would await them at the museum.

The scene, which was the room containing the inside portion of the birds' enclosure, looked like a complete disaster. The half that was not part of the cage had furniture, paper and supplies flung everywhere; more chillingly, though, was the blood splashed about, including several bloody footprints. The door to the cage had been broken open, as had its door to the outside; one of the birds huddled in a corner, shuddering. Aside from the single bird, and the policemice milling about, there was no other sign of life.

"Mr. Basil!" Inspector Moustrade called out as he spied the detective and made his way over, but Basil immediately held up a hand to silence him as he took in the scene. Shooting the inspector an apologetic glance for Basil's brusqueness, Dawson also looked around, dumbfounded. They'd just been here the day before, and now this... and the blood... Dawson just hope that whosever it was, it wasn't-

A disturbance from within the cage caused everyone to look up. The bird, whose upturned feather identified him as Peter, had suddenly come to life as someone came to close, flaring his wings and hissing menacingly through his sharp, opened beak as he advanced slightly on the policemice.

"W-wait!" Dawson cried, as several policemice started reaching for weapons. "Peter!" he cried to the bird. "Stop! You remember me, right? From yesterday? You nibbled my coat, right here, see?" He held up the hem, which was now frayed from the bird's earlier attentions.

Peter stared at him for a moment, then recognition came to his dark eyes. "Pio? Piopio! Piopiopio!" He began to hop frantically, as though desperate to tell Dawson something. It was then that Dawson noticed what the bird had been protecting.

"Basil!" He shouted, racing over to the bird and the stricken mouse that lay in the corner; Peter stepped to the side, but loomed over anxiously as Dawson knelt down. Dr. Chipman had been horribly wounded, savaged even. Checking for lifesigns, Dawson was relieved to find that the old scientist was still alive, though unconscious.

"We need to get this mouse to the hospital, immediately!" the doctor shouted to the police, who were staring at him uncertainly. Responding to the unmistakable authority in his voice, they all suddenly sprang into action, readying a stretcher and preparing the dog as transport to the hospital. As Dawson hurriedly tended to him, the way he'd once tended to the wounded in the fields of a war that seemed a lifetime ago, Chipman moaned, his eyes fluttering. "Dr. Dawson? Is that you?"

"Yes, I'm here. Lie still, please," Dawson said reassuringly. A shadow abruptly appeared over them as Basil, who had been poking his head through the pass through to the outside before Dawson had called him, suddenly crowded in.

"Is he awake? Dr. Chipman, can you hear me?" Basil asked urgently.

"Basil!" Dawson hissed warningly, and the detective took a step back with uncharacteristic meekness to let him work.

"Mr. Basil..." rasped Chipman; Dawson gently shushed him as the policemice helped to load him onto the stretcher.

"Don't worry, Dr. Chipman, I'll be with you all the way to the hospital."

"No!" Chipman said with unexpected force. "You need to stay here. Watch... Peter." Dawson looked over at the bird, who looked on in helpless confusion as the scientist was carried out of the enclosure, and he felt instantly torn- his instinct as a doctor told him to stay with Chipman, but it was clear by the suspicious looks the policemice were still giving the piopio, who seemed so lost and afraid, that he was needed here, too. Looking into Chipman's pained eyes, with their silent, desperate plea, Dawson reluctantly made his decision. "I'll look after him," he promised. A sense of relief seemed to wash over the stricken mouse, who then looked past Dawson at the figure behind him.

"Mr... Basil?" he said again.

"Yes, I'm here," Basil said, leaning forward, though Chipman struggled just to speak now. The detective gently grasped his paw. "What are you trying to tell me?"

_"Save them,"_ Chipman whispered, but the effort was too much; he sagged back into unconsciousness. Basil and Dawson watched solemnly as he was borne out of the room by the police.

"Well," Basil said, breaking the silence, "I had hoped he could have given us an account of what transpired here, but I think I have a good enough idea already."

"What's that?" asked Inspector Moustrade, who had also joined them. "What do you make of all this?"

"It's all quite clear, based on the evidence," Basil replied. "We are looking for a short, half-blind weasel, working in conjunction with an owl to abduct one of Dr. Chipman's birds." Both Dawson and Moustrade stared at him blankly. Basil sighed. "Surely you can identify the larger footprints here as belonging to a weasel, Inspector."

"Why, yes, of course, anyone can see that," Moustrade said defensively. "But how could you possibly-"

"We can tell from the stride length of the prints that our suspect stands just over five inches tall, which is on the smaller side for a weasel. Now, Dr. Chipman's wounds are noticeably more concentrated along his right side, which would be the perpetrator's left, indicating some sort of handicap along the culprit's right side. His stride, again deduced from the footprints, is even- there is nothing wrong with his leg. And if you look into the outer pen-" he led them to the door to the outside- "you'll notice that the wires have been neatly cut. Cuts that clean could only have been made with bolt cutters, and to be that precise would require two fully functional arms and hands. That only leaves his eyesight- he is either missing or otherwise blind in his right eye."

"But what about the owl?" Dawson asked. "And where is Petra? You said that she's been abducted..."

"I was just examining that evidence when you discovered Dr. Chipman," Basil replied. "Do you see those feathers there?" Dawson had been trying to avoid looking at the scattered pile of feathers in the middle of the compound- he shuddered to think what they might mean- but at Basil's insistence he forced himself to look. "Most of them appear to come from Dr. Chipman's bird. However, _this_ feather is noticeably different." He reached among the feathers, and Dawson could see immediately that the one he selected and held up for them to see was larger and more... fluffier, for lack of a better word. "I'm not an expert on birds," Basil admitted, "but this is unmistakably the feather of an owl."

"My word," Dawson said, staring wide eyed at the feather. He looked at Petra's feathers strewn about the compound. "Then Petra is..." he trailed off disconsolately.

"I don't think so," Basil said quickly. "Notice that there's no blood out here. If the owl had killed her here, it would be much messier. He took her- alive."

"I still don't understand any of this," Moustrade complained. "Weasels? Owls? How does any of this connect? How did they even get here without the guards noticing?"

"This is my theory," Basil said. "There are two ways our weasel friend may have slipped past the guards. The first is that he may have employed the natural stealth of his species to avoid detection. The second is that he used hypnosis."

"Hypnosis?" Dawson said incredulously.

"Yes. While hypnosis is not a hereditary trait among weasels, as some believe, it is a traditional craft often taught by parents to children through many family lines. It's entirely possible that this weasel used it to confound the guards and break into Dr. Chipman's office, where he unexpectedly found that Dr. Chipman himself had stayed late. A fight broke out, and when Chipman was incapacitated the culprit entered the cage, opened the outer door, and chased the birds outside, where he cut the wires and summoned the owl to swoop off with one of the birds."

"But why?" Dawson and Moustrade both asked in unison.

"That I don't know yet," Basil said. "But I may be able to locate them with this." He held up the owl feather again. "The increased surface area of this feather holds particles of dust and dirt much better than hair. I can perform some tests on it to determine their origin."

"Now see here," Moustrade objected, "that's evidence of this cri-" Seeing the look Basil and Dawson gave him, he relented, "Oh, very well."

"Now, then, Dawson, let's hurry home to- Dawson?" Basil looked over at the doctor, who was staring at the remaining bird.

"What will become of Peter?" Dawson asked.

"Well, I'm sure that the Yard will see to him."

"We're not a zoo, Mr. Basil," Moustrade said irritably. "Since you've assumed control of this investigation, I'll leave this to you, as well." His tone held just a hint of smugness at that last; Basil glared at the Inspector from the corner of his eye.

"Well, he can't stay here," Dawson said. "It's all destroyed." He though for a moment, as though choosing his next words carefully. "Perhaps he could-"

"Absolutely not," Basil cut him off.

"But Basil," Dawson said. "I promised Dr. Chipman that I would watch over him..."

"Now see here!" Basil said. "There is absolutely no way that that animal will be staying-"

"-with us for a few days," Basil reluctantly tried to explain to Mrs. Judson, who looked fit to have a conniption where she stood in the doorway of their Baker Street home. Basil and Dawson stood outside at the door, while Peter the piopio regarded the mousekeeper nervously from behind them.

"But Mr. Basil, think of the mess!" Mrs. Judson pleaded.

"We'll lay down some newspaper," Dawson said placatingly. "He has nowhere else to go right now, Mrs. Judson. As Basil said, it'll only be for a few days."

"Bless me," Mrs. Judson said, as she reluctantly stepped aside to let all of them through. "As if the gunshots and the experiments weren't bad enough, now you have to bring _pets_ into my house?"

While Basil set up his chemistry set for whatever experiments he would need to perform on the owl feather, Dawson got to work laying down newspaper in the corner and setting down bowls of water and food provided by Mrs. Judson, before coaxing Peter onto the covered area. The bird settled down onto the floor and thrust his beak under Dawson's hand. "Pio..." he said mournfully.

"There, there, I know," Dawson said, stroking the bird's head, unsuccessful at smoothing out the single, curling feather. "We'll put things right." Peter continued to coo sadly, his eyes closing. Suddenly they shot open, and his head perked up at a sound very familiar within the flat- Basil had evidently finished preparing his experiment and had now settled into his chair to play his violin. Peter cocked his head, listening for several moment in fascination. Then, he did something unexpected- he began to sing along, his voice clear and strong.

Basil immediately stopped playing and turned in his chair to scowl at him for interrupting what was intended to be a solo performance, as it always was; Peter also went quiet, while Dawson tried to suppress a smile. Basil turned back and began to play again; Peter again began to sing along. Basil struck a sour note in frustration and stopped playing. "Of all the- oh, whatever." He set the violin down next to his chair again and stood up. He glared again at Peter, before frowning at Dawson, sitting next to him and now unable to fully hide his amusement. "Instead of playing with that bird, I suggest you rest for the next hour or so until dawn," the detective said tersely. "We have a busy day tomorrow."


	4. Chapter 4

When Mrs. Judson awoken him the next day, Dawson still felt as though he hadn't gotten enough sleep, although it was late morning. Basil was, once again, already up and fully dressed, and looked like he'd been for some time now.

"Good morning, Dawson," he said from where he stood over his chemistry set. "We've got a busy day ahead of us."

"How wonderful," Dawson said, partially hiding his dry tone with a yawn. "What did you have in mind?"

"This will need to set for a while," Basil said, apparently in reference to whatever experiment he had set up on the chemistry set. "We're going to- shoo, shoo, get out of here, go!" He turned and waved away Peter with both hands as the bird crowded over his shoulder, apparently interested in whatever he was doing. "We're going to see if we can learn any more about our weasel hypnotist. I sent one of the Regulars to the Mesmer Club this morning to see if any of their members match the description of our culprit, but they have no records of any weasel with only one eye. There's also no rise in missing persons reports in the area- in fact, Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens have seen a drop in reports- but the tests I'm performing on the owl feather should tell us exactly where the winged devil is roosting. They won't be completed until this evening, however, so in the meantime we'll have to continue our own investigations."

Dawson looked at the table and although, as usual, he couldn't comprehend the exact nature of the experiment being performed, his eye did fall to an open book alongside it- a book of European birds. Apparently Basil, either late last night or earlier that morning, had decided to identify which species the feather had come from. The book was opened to a picture of a brown owl with orange-red eyes, so large that it stretched across both pages, with a picture of a mouse for scale- dangling from its beak. The entry read "Eagle Owl, Wingspan = 6 feet."

The doctor repressed a shudder. Early in their adventures together, he had been attacked by a half-grown barn owl, and very narrowly escaped with his life. The eagle owl was much, much larger.

Basil was completely oblivious to Dawson's reaction as he bustled about the room, pointedly ignoring Peter as he did so. "Well, don't just stand there, Dawson, come down and get ready!" he said impatiently.

"Get ready for what?" Dawson said, turning away from the book and returning some of the impatience. "You still haven't told me anything!"

Basil just smiled in answer.

"Basil, I don't know how I let you talk me into these things," Dawson said, a resigned note in his voice as he adjusted his disguise. He felt sure that he'd never fully get the gray make-up out of his fur- though with adventures like this, his fur would naturally turn gray, anyway.

"Cheer up, Dawson," Basil replied, apparently unbothered by the make-up that also aged his appearance. "It's not nearly as bad as the last time, is it?"

Dawson couldn't argue with that. At least he wasn't dressed as a pirate.

The bar that Basil had decided to head to for information was also a great deal nicer than other places they'd been to in the past, like the Rat Trap; while it wasn't exactly the pinnacle of class, fights and weapons were considerably less common. Dawson tried to look on the bright side of things- they might actually get what they wanted here without incident.

Basil opened the door to the bar, revealing a spacious room of tables occupied by rats, weasels, and the odd stoat.

Basil and Dawson were the only mice present. Everyone else turned to stare at them as they walked in.

_Basil_, Dawson thought, looking around frantically at all the suspicious, possibly predatory attention they were getting, _you really are going to get us killed!_

The bartender, a black rat whose fur was shabby but clean, eyed them with what looked like amusement as Basil made his way to the bar and casually ordered drinks. Most of the other clientele continued to eye them watchfully as they returned to their business; it was then that Dawson noticed a figure in the corner.

"Basil, isn't that Bill the Lizard over there? Wasn't he part of Ratigan's gang?"

Basil turned his attention to the small reptile sitting alone, apparently oblivious and just as out of place as they were. "So it is," he affirmed. "He was never tied directly to the plot against the queen, and turned against his former friends to avoid jail, himself- I suppose if I'd made that many enemies, I'd surround myself with a dangerous lot such as this, too."

"He never was right in the head," Dawson commented, "claimed to be a chimney sweep from another world..." They both turned their attention back to the bar as their drinks arrived; Dawson was careful this time to make sure Basil was confident enough in their safety to drink before doing so himself.

"So," the barkeep said conversationally, "What're two gentlemice such as yourselves doin' in a place like this, if you don't mind me asking? We don't get many such as yourselves around here."

"Business, I hope," Basil said, effortlessly slipping into an accent quite different from his own. "I heard there's a fellow in these parts who deals in rare animals and related commodities. I don't know his name, just that he's a weasel from the north and apparently only has one eye."

"Oh?" the barkeep said. "And why are you _really _looking for Snake-Eye Samuelson, Mr. Basil of Baker Street?"

Dawson just about fell out of his chair, but Basil, to his credit, barely batted an eye as he said, "And what makes you think I'm Basil of Baker Street?"

"Oh, come on," the barkeep replied. "What other mouse would be crazy enough to come in here lookin' for 'ol Snake-Eye? There's not a vermin in all of London who doesn't know your name after that Ratigan business."

"There's not?" Dawson asked shakily, hoping all the vermin didn't know his name, too.

"Oh, don't worry yourself," the bartender said dismissively. "Ratigan was a disgrace to all ratdom, denyin' his nature like that. Personally, I like you- you keep things around here... interesting. Anyway, I don't know much more 'bout ol' Snake-Eye, myself- I heard he's back in town, but he prefers to make deals in less public places, I've heard, so I haven't seen him in here. Wish I could be more help." Another patron called out to the barkeep, and he excused himself and walked away.

Dawson was about to suggest they leave when a long, white tail wrapped itself around Basil's midsection, followed immediately by the nauseating fragrance of a strong perfume. "By me a drink, handsome?" the stoat crooned into Basil's ear.

"I think not, madam," Basil replied, with hardly a glance in her direction.

"And why not? I could show you a good time," the sultry voice asked, and suddenly the tail slithered away and was replaced with the long, serpentine body of a stoat, still in her snowy winter fur and dressed finely, bedecked with gold jewelry. She was on the small side for her species, but even so, she was much larger than Basil, and as she insinuated herself into his lap the detective seemed in danger of being crushed under her and her excessive gold. Or smothered by that awful perfume...

"Your perfume," Basil said, with as much nonchalance as the situation would physically allow. "It's cheap."

Both the stoat and Dawson stared at him in disbelief; her expression was edged with confusion, his in horror at his bluntness. "Wha-what?" the stoat asked.

"You wish to present yourself as a stoat of some affluence," Basil said matter-of-factly, reaching across her to sip his drink. "However, your perfume is of a cheap brand, your dress appears to have originally been made for a stoat an inch taller than you before you had it stitched for a better fit, and all of your jewelry, while nicely polished, is mismatched and apparently from different sources. Judging by the rough looking fellow over there who shares the distinct angle of his whiskers with you and is watching us with alarming intensity, I'd guess that he is your brother, and that you are none other than the infamous Stoat Sibs, who make their living by placing mice of means into compromising situations and then blackmailing them to avoid embarrassment. Or bodily harm, as the case may be," he added, twitching his ear ever so slightly toward the huge stoat sitting at a table behind them and who was, just as Basil had said, watching them keenly with bright, predatory eyes.

The stoat lady stared at him in shock for a moment, then leaped from his lap and fled toward the table where her brother sat with a choked sob.

"Oh, now she's just being over-dramatic," Basil said dismissively.

"Basil, I really think it's time we-" Dawson began anxiously.

"Duck!" Basil commanded, grabbing Dawson's collar and pulling him down just as a chair sailed over them.

"How dare you talk to my sister like that!" the brother Stoat Sib roared. "I'll tear you to pieces!" He began to charge across the room toward the bar, though fortunately several rats from a nearby table grabbed at him and held him back.

"Take it easy mate," one of them said.

"Let go of me, leggo!" he snarled and thrashed at them; more patrons got up to try to calm him, while a few stoats who had been sitting at the now overturned table with him jumped to his defense. An argument erupted as almost the entire bar stood up and joined the growing crowd, with the restrained stoat writhing in the middle. Only Bill the Lizard seemed unfazed, sipping his drink as though nothing was happening.

"Well, I think our work here is done," Basil said. "It's time we return home to check on our experiment."

"They're blocking the door," Dawson noted forlornly.

"You can use the back door," a voice said behind them; the barkeep had returned. "Just follow me. And I'd suggest you not come back to my bar for a while," he said as he escorted them to the other side of the bar. "You make things around here a little... too interesting," he added, but there was an amused gleam in his eye.

"Well, that was another thoroughly unrewarding experience," Dawson commented as they made their door on Baker Street. The powdery make-up in his fur felt gummy, and he couldn't wait to get it off.

"Oh, nonsense, Dawson," Basil chided. "It was most illuminating- we have a name now! Snake-Eye Samuelson, hmm..." he trailed off, lost in thought.

"That's not what I meant and you know it," Dawson said.

"In any case, we're making good progress," Basil said as he began to open the door, "We have name, and our experiment will give us a loca... wha?"

The great mouse detective then proceeded to scream so loud that even the human residents of 221B Baker Street briefly looked up in confusion.

The lab was in shambles. Equipment had been knocked to the floor, much of it broken, and chemicals had been spilled everywhere, some of them apparently eating into the floor or whatever surface they had landed on. Their stench hung heavily in the air.

"Mr. Basil!" cried Mrs. Judson as she bustled in.

"What. Happened. Here," Basil said, trying to control his voice.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Basil," Mrs. Judson said quickly. "I went into the kitchen to clean up after you left, and the bird must've gotten curious about your experiment... I heard a crash, and when I ran back out, it was...

"It's okay, Mrs. Judson," Dawson said reassuringly. "It doesn't look like anyone was hurt, so we'll just clean this up and-"

"OUT! GET HIM OUT OF HERE!" Basil exploded, causing everyone to jump away. His face as so red with outrage that it was visible through his fur as he glared at Peter and pointed toward the door. "Get that creature out of here this instant!"

It took several hours to clean up the lab- throwing out broken glass, safely neutralizing and disposing of the spilled chemicals (a rug and a broom were lost to a particularly nasty acid) and seeing what was salvageable.

"What's that?" Dawson asked, as Basil carefully picked up what looked like a small white stick from the floor with a pair of tongs.

"The feather," he replied dully.

"Can we still use it?"

"It fell into a puddle of acid and all the barbs were burned off. It's useless to us now," the detective said dejectedly.

"Now what do we do?" Dawson asked hesitatingly.

Basil sighed, carefully placing the ruined feather on the table and sinking down into his favorite chair. "Tomorrow I'll have the Regulars see if they can locate any human falconers in the area who keep eagle owls- it's dreadfully inefficient, but it's our only lead on that front. You and I will have to continue looking for information on this Snake-Eye Samuelson fellow."

"At least we have a name now," Dawson said.

"What we don't have is time," Basil countered. "By the time we catch up to him now, it's likely he'll have finished whatever business deal he's made and left London entirely. Now, if you'll excuse me..." he reached for his violin.

Dawson looked out the window, where a small, beaked face stared inside miserably. "It's rather cold out tonight," the doctor said.

"The answer is 'no', Dawson," Basil replied, and began to play the violin, indicating that as far as he was concerned the conversation was over. Dawson sighed; he supposed it wasn't so cold out that Peter would come to any real harm, though the poor creature must be lonely. Basil's mind was made up, though, and he wouldn't budge until everyone had at least gotten a good night's rest. With one final helpless glance toward the window, Dawson turned and headed upstairs, the sound of the violin following him up.

Alone now, Basil now felt free to play in peace, but a persistent tapping sound interrupted his thoughts. He stopped and turned toward the source of the sound- the window, which Peter was rapping his beak against. He stopped when he saw that he had the detective's attention and gave him a hopeful look.

"Stop it!" Basil hissed, before turning away and resuming his playing. But the tapping began again, this time louder. Basil shot the window a poisonous glare, but now Peter just stared at him pleadingly, puffing up his feathers against the chill night air.

Basil was about to issue a more strongly worded rebuke at him, but something about the bird's pitiful appearance stopped him. He watched as Peter, apparently grateful to have at least gotten his attention, settled up against the window, his feathers still fluffed.

Basil sighed; he wouldn't be able to concentrate on his music if the stupid thing was beating on the window all night. "All right," he relented, getting up and opening the door. Peter was there in an instant, and Basil had to step back to avoid being bowled over. "But you sit in that corner and you neither move nor make any sound!" he said sternly, pointing to where the newspapers had been placed the night before. Peter bounded joyfully to his makeshift "nest", twisting his neck over his shoulder and his beak under his wing as he settled down. Satisfied that the bird wasn't going anywhere, Basil again took up his violin- but again, he was interrupted, this time by an altogether different sound.

At first, it sounded like someone was playing a flute, albeit softly and somehow muffled. When Basil stopped playing, the flute continued for just a little while longer- long enough for him to home in on its source. It was Peter, apparently asleep but trilling along softly to the sound of the violin.

Basil stared at the bird for several moments, and it finally struck him- how alone and out of place he was, a creature of lush tropical forests that no longer existed, and possibly the last of his kind that the world would ever again see, sitting in the corner of a flat in the middle of London. Should his species die out, few would even notice, except Chipman, if he survived, Dawson, - and now Basil, himself.

_Save them, _Chipman had said as they'd taken him away. At the time, Basil had thought the old scientist had just meant Petra and the egg, but now he finally saw what had really been meant- something Dawson must have understood, but the greatest detective in all Mousedom had missed until now. They weren't hired just to save a bird and an egg for an eccentric scientist- their job was to save an entire species, lest the entire world lost something most of it didn't even know it had.

As he stared, Peter, with the instinct of a prey animal that knew it was being watched, began to stir, opening a bright eye and regarding Basil curiously. It felt as though an unspoken question was being asked.

"All right," Basil replied, motioning the bird over before settling down again with his violin. Peter hopped over expectantly, and as Basil resumed playing, Peter again began to sing along with his high, reed-like voice. It was a strange duet, for their styles could not have been more different- one spoke of cultured refinement borne from years of practice, the other of wild, distant lands and natural, unrestrained talent- but both musicians managed to harmonize with one another so skillfully that they created something new and even greater.

So it was that Dawson, used to being kept awake by Basil's moody violin playing, was surprised not only by what sounded like a second instrument but also the entirely different attitude the music now projected. He crept carefully to the foot of the stairs and stared down at the strange sight below, unsure of what he was seeing but not daring to interrupt it. He could only smile and turn back toward his room- whatever had just happened, it was wonderful.

Now, if he could only get the rest of that make-up off.


End file.
